


Balance

by Laur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, First Time, Ghost Sex, Literal Alternate Universes, M/M, Supernatural Elements, sort of, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7300612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Each universe was like an intricate game of cat’s cradle, or a complicated blanket of crochet, billions of threads interweaving and crossing and tangling. Some threads never touched, never even came close, but when one thread was plucked the entire fabric quivered in reaction.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Each stuck in a universe where the other does not exist, a distortion of space allows Sherlock and John to meet each other through touch alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the music video of Special Needs by Placebo.

Sometimes, the universe messed up.

Names and places were often variable, history an ever-changing story, but some things were meant to remain constant. Some threads were meant to be so tightly entwined that they became indistinguishable, some balances were not meant to be shifted.

Some people were not meant to be separated.

When these separations, these errors in the universal fabric, happened, odd phenomena occurred: distortions of space, blending of universes, wrinkles in time. Eventually, balance would be returned. 

  
  


Sherlock Holmes was 35 years old. He lived in an admittedly dreadful bedsit on Montague Street, where the most intriguing mold was beginning to spread from the damp corner in the ceiling above his bed. He needed to move, but since the last overdose three years ago, Mycroft still had control over his funds, and with what Sherlock had access to, he could never afford a decent flat in London. Asking Mycroft for the money was out of the question.

He needed a flatmate. But who would have him?

Sherlock was under no illusions; he was a caustic man, with an intimidating intelligence, invasively keen eye, poor manners and a sharp tongue. He would not debase himself for the comfort of others, he would not bother with social niceties and white lies and _small_ _talk_. It was not worth it.

Though he was not actively aware of it, for his whole life, Sherlock had been searching. Searching for answers, for how he fit into the world. As a young child, he had followed his brother like Mycroft held the secrets of the universe. When Mycroft had left for boarding school, Sherlock had read books with an uncanny intensity, then ripped the knees of his trousers as he explored for the bugs, the birds, the plants he’d seen depicted on pages. In school he tried to be useful by sharing his knowledge with his classmates – _you’re going to have another sibling, you are related to your neighbour, your grandfather won’t make it to his next birthday_ – but somehow his words never had the intended effect. People never reacted the way they should. 

In uni he tried to be normal, because that was what people wanted – dull, boring, stupid, homogenous. For a year he tried it – the _normal_ lark – tried the all-night parties with stimulants and depressants and writhing bodies, the relationships that always ended with screaming rows, the sex that was more trouble than it was worth, and the friendships that somehow devolved into stiff silences and hurt feelings.

Because people didn’t really want _normal_. Because they wanted to use and belittle and feel good about themselves. Because when people were faced with _normal_ , they realized what freaks they themselves really were. Because Sherlock was pants at acting normal.

So he stopped. The parties, the drinking, the sex, the relationships, they all stopped. The friendly, joking, humble, _normal_ Sherlock Holmes disappeared. 

The drugs remained.

But what Sherlock did not know, even as he got his chemistry degree at the top of his class, even as he used and smoked, went in and out of rehab twice, eventually made a deal with DI Lestrade and finally began the whole consulting detective business, what he did not know was that he would never find what he was searching for. That certain place where he just _fit_.

Because in this life, in this universe, Harry Watson was adopted at the age of two. Because Mr. and Mrs. Watson were killed in a car crash when Harry was twenty months old. Because Harry Watson was an only child. 

Because in this world, there was no John Watson. 

  
  


_Each universe was like an intricate game of cat’s cradle, or a complicated blanket of crochet, billions of threads interweaving and crossing and tangling. Some threads never touched, never even came close, but when one thread was plucked the entire fabric quivered in reaction._

  
  


John Watson was 38 years old. He lived in a depressing, musty flat on Montague Street, the only place he could afford on his army pension. He needed to move, but to do that he needed money, which meant he needed a job, which was impossible because he walked with a limp, his dominant hand shook and he saw a therapist semi-weekly. 

He could get a flat share, but, honestly, who would want him for a flatmate? He was perpetually short-tempered, still woke up screaming most nights, and kept an illegal firearm in the top drawer of his desk.

John felt like he’d been fighting his whole life. When Harry had come out at sixteen, he’d fought against the resulting bigotry and hate. He’d fought to get on the rugby team when he was fourteen and small for his age. He’d struggled to balance two jobs and his studies when he insisted on going to medical school. He’d shouted and stood firm to gain respect in the army, then withstood the heat and sand and violence of the desert so that he could fight to keep life in bodies and bodies attached to limbs. 

The greatest battle he’d ever faced, however, after he was shot, was against the infection that ravaged his body, as he struggled through the inferno of fever, the torture of damaged nerves, the waking nightmare of hallucinations. This greatest battle he won, returning to the land of the living tired, worn, injured but still with some fight in him. Still with that good old Watson tenacity. 

What defeated him was the discharge.

For the first time in his life, in London, the city he loved but could no longer bear to live in, John felt truly beaten. Without his profession, his purpose, he’d lost his sense of self, and with it, that spark that had always smoldered under his ribs, that inherent need to fight. It had been extinguished.

So he went through the motions. Because that’s what people did. They got up in the mornings, they showered, got dressed… And that’s where it fell apart, because he had no job to go to, no family to kiss goodbye. He had an appointment with the therapist at two, an apple that he would not eat, a gun he cleaned methodically every day, a phone from his sister with whom he did not want to speak, and a laptop with the words ‘Nothing happens to me’ staring back at him.

The scariest thing, the thing John dreaded but did not know, was that his will to fight would never return. Because no amount of stilted therapy sessions, blog posts or physical therapy would return that Watson spark. Because in this life, in this universe, Mycroft Holmes was born without a breath in his tiny body, and after that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes gave up trying. 

In this world, there was no Sherlock Holmes. 

  
  


_Each universe was like an intricate game of cat’s cradle, or a complicated blanket of crochet, stacked one on top of the other. Usually, different universes did not touch, nor were they meant to, but, under certain circumstances, if a string in one world was plucked hard enough, and vibrated with enough energy, it could extend far enough to brush a string in the universe next to it. Just brush, mind, felt but unseen. After all, a string did not leave its own fabric. At least, one never had before._

  
  


The first time it happened, Sherlock had just finished viewing 221B Baker Street. The online advert had been unconvincing, but the name of the landlady had caught his eye – Mrs. Martha Hudson owed Sherlock a favour. 

So he’d gone to see the flat, with its Victorian wallpaper, bright sitting room, two bedrooms and a bath. _Yes, this could do quite nicely_ , he’d thought. He could already picture how he’d set up his chemistry set in the kitchen, and the closet space in the main bedroom was a nice perk. Still thankful for the whole Florida business, Mrs. Hudson had given him a generous offer, but it was still out of Sherlock’s budget, even if he stretched it a bit. 

So they stood on the front steps as she gave him a hug goodbye, which he stiffly returned. 

“Oh, it was so good to see you again, dear,” she prattled on. “Perhaps if you could find a flatmate to split the rent with…”

“Yes, I’ve set out a hunt for one,” Sherlock agreed, causing Mrs. Hudson to twitter a laugh, though he hadn’t meant to be funny. 

He pulled away and stepped down to the pavement and was immediately jostled as someone bumped into him. He stumbled a bit and whipped around, looking for the bumbling idiot to berate, but the closest pedestrian was on the other side of the street.

“Oh, are you alright?” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, gripping the handrail as she came down the steps.

Sherlock shrugged out of her fluttering grasp, smoothing his expression. “Yes, yes I’m fine.”

“You look a bit pale, here let me get you some more of those biscuits to go.”

Nearly growling with irritation, Sherlock forced a smile. “I promise, Mrs. Hudson, I am perfectly alright. Just missed that last step a bit.”

He had done nothing of the sort, but with Mrs. Hudson reassured, he quickly made his escape. 

  
  


The first time it happened, John was on his way to a flat viewing. He’d seen an advert in the papers for a nice place in central London, 221B Baker Street. He’d never be able to afford it, but something about the photo attracted him. The address was convenient, the description sounded lovely and, well, he had nothing better to do today. 

He was about to walk up the steps, eyes on the old fashioned brass knocker on the black door, when he met an obstacle in thin air. 

With a huff he stumbled back, leaning heavily on his cane and raising a hand to his smarting nose, which felt like it had been flattened. For several moments he just stood there, staring at the emptiness in front of him. Slowly, feeling like a lunatic, he reached out a hand in front of him, lowering it again when he felt nothing. 

God, he was going mad wasn’t he.

He could blame it on a lack of sleep, on his PTSD, on his limp, but he was unnerved enough that he turned and went back the way he came, not bothering to knock on the door. He’d never be able to afford the place anyhow.

  
  


Sherlock smirked as he added the last drop with the digital pipette, watching the solution fizz in reaction. Just as he’d suspected. 

Pulling out his phone, he sent a quick text to Lestrade.

_If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH_

He reached for the pipette again, about to put everything away, when a fleeting touch to his wrist made him flinch, nearly knocking over his experiment. There was no one in the lab with him. 

Holding his breath, Sherlock held still as the touch returned, this time to his hand. He watched as the skin on the back of his hand dimpled under a gentle, curious pressure, a ghost’s fingertips pressed into his skin. Gooseflesh erupted along Sherlock’s arms as a shudder ran down his spine, his lungs sucking in a reflexive gasp. 

There was no one in the lab with him.

And yet.

Sherlock shoved back violently from the lab bench, the metal stool scraping loudly in the empty room. Against his back was a solid presence, as if he were pressed against someone’s chest, and he quickly stepped to the side, away from the ghost. 

Pale and wide-eyed, Sherlock fled from the room, leaving the equipment for a student to clean up. Just outside the door, he walked directly into Molly.

“Oh!” she gasped, coffee sloshing on both of them, staining her lab coat.

Sherlock gripped her by the shoulders. “Molly, I need – what happened to the lipstick?” He shook his head sharply. “Never mind, don’t care. I need to run a blood test.”

“Blood test?” she exclaimed, pink faced and flustered.

“I think I’ve been drugged.”

  
  


“Well, bit different from my day,” John muttered, taking in the clean, bright lab with its expensive equipment.

“You’ve no idea,” Mike agreed, chuckling. “They’ve got all this fancy equipment for the students now – wasted on most of them, in my opinion.”

John nodded absently, walking along one of the lab benches, trailing his hand along the smooth metal. During his studies he’d probably spent a year of his life, total, in labs like this. To think, if he became a professor, he could be working in a lab like this in the future. Every day, doing the same experiments over and over, preaching to blank faces.

The idea made his stomach clench with distaste. 

“I remember when we were still doing experiments with Styrofoam cups,” Mike continued, good humoured. 

John was watching his hand as it skimmed the worktop, and he froze as his fingers bumped into something. According to his eyes, the worktop was empty.

Like he had outside of 221B Baker Street, John reached out hesitantly, sucking in a breath when his fingertips met what felt like smooth skin. Curiously, he gently prodded the invisible object, feeling the long, thin rods under the skin – the metacarpals of a hand. 

“John?”

John glanced up in surprise, remembering that Mike was still in the room, watching John stare at nothing. At the same moment, the hand under John’s fingertips was ripped away and John stumbled as something large pushed him back. His cane clattered to the ground as John grabbed onto the worktop to catch himself, not trusting his bad leg to stand firm. 

Mike rushed to his side, concern on his usually jovial face. “John, are you alright? What happened?”

Shaking his head, John couldn’t meet Mike’s eyes, staring at his own white knuckles as he gripped the edge of the worktop. Silently, Mike retrieved the cane and held it out. Hating it, hating himself, hating his leg, John just breathed, just breathed for a moment, while Mike waited patiently. Finally, John took the cane and nodded in thanks. 

“Sorry, just not used to this thing yet, I guess,” he offered self-deprecatingly, tapping the cane a couple times. 

“No worries, mate. Gotta give yourself time to adjust.”

John nodded again, took a deep breath. “Thanks for this, Mike.” He started for the door, wanting nothing more than to escape Mike’s too-kind gaze. “It was good to see you again.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too,” Mike agreed quickly, opening the door for him. “We ought to exchange numbers. Maybe we could grab a pint some time.”

“I haven’t got a phone,” John lied, limping quickly down the hall. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “I’ve got an email though,” he offered. “I check it sometimes.”

  
  


_Felt but unseen, two strings in neighbouring blankets were plucked, vibrating excitedly. When they brushed, they quivered against each other._

  
  


In his flat, Sherlock shut and locked the door, then stood in the middle of the room. Just stood. He closed his eyes and counted his breaths, remembered the phantom touch on his hand.

  
  


In his flat, John shut and locked the door, then sat at the kitchen table. Just sat. He closed his eyes and tried to convince himself he wasn’t losing his mind.

  
  


The blood results had come back negative for all the likely narcotics Sherlock could test for. Think. _Think_. He needed to think. Coat still on, Sherlock spun and moved to the kitchen so he could sit and delve into his mind palace.

  
  


Sleep. He needed sleep, that was all. But first, the gun. John stood and moved towards the bedside table and froze as something brushed by his left side.

  
  


It was here, the phantom, the ghost, the inexplicable presence. In his flat. Sherlock stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe as he raised his hand to press against the invisible mass at his left side. His palm met rough fabric. A canvas coat. Slowly, Sherlock trailed his hand up a flat chest to a broad shoulder, the sensations fighting with what his eyes saw: his hand floating in thin air, the flesh of his palm compressing under pressure. 

Sherlock blinked hard, blinked away the excess moisture pooling on his lower lids, sucking in a breath as he reached the invisible man’s jaw, lightly stubbled and well-defined.

  
  


John stood stock still as an invisible pressure crumpled the fabric of his coat, slowly making its way up his chest. He closed his eyes as the cool, hesitant touch brushed his chin, the feeling of smooth fingertips trailing along his jaw. With a jerky motion, John reached up to grab at the hand, halting its motion. 

For a long moment, all was still. If this was some kind of nervous break, John had to admit it was at least interesting. More interesting than anything that had happened to him recently.

Cautiously, curiously, he ran his own fingers along the familiar metacarpals to the head of the ulna in the wrist, then slid his fingertips to the underside of the wrist, where a pulse was thundering at least as quickly as his own.

Fighting to control his breathing, John continued his exploration, feeling the arm under a rough coat sleeve, up to a considerably high shoulder, then along a collarbone, past a high coat collar, and at last to a smooth jaw. 

Now evenly matched, John stopped and opened his eyes, watching his hand float in the air with the invisible man’s fingers still pressed to his own jaw. The moment he stopped moving, the pressure at his jaw disappeared and John gasped as his hand was clasped.

  
  


Sherlock stayed so tense his muscles quivered as the man’s hand explored his body, briefly checking his pulse before gradually making its way to his own jaw. He could feel the heat of shallow, panting breaths against the back of his hand, could see the way the tiny hairs on the back of his hand quivered in reaction. 

He had always trusted the evidence of his own eyes, until now. Now, Sherlock did not know what to believe, doubt constricting his chest. The data of his own senses were at war with each other, the input from his eyes not matching that of his flesh, and so Sherlock eliminated one: he closed his eyes. Throat tight, he squeezed his eyelids shut, feeling moisture catch on his eyelashes, and focused on his sense of touch. The fingers stopped at his jaw and Sherlock pictured the two of them in his mind’s eye, himself and this shorter man, one hand raised each, fingertips brushing the other’s face. He was tempted to open his eyes, to verify what his skin was telling him, but fought the impulse. 

The fingertips against his jaw were rough, callused, and Sherlock brought both hands up to gather more information. When he gripped the smaller hand, the left, it twitched in surprise but did not pull away, and Sherlock began exploring the complicated whorls and bumps. The earlier fleeting touch to Sherlock’s pulse said _medical_ , said _doctor_ , and the thin, delicate fingers hinted at _surgeon_. 

Curiosity piqued, Sherlock gripped the man by the shoulders and paused there, considering. The shoulders were not at an equal height. Back condition? Or something else? Sherlock ran his hands down both arms, feeling the tense muscles under coat fabric. He wished to feel the other hand, to gather what information was held there, but when his hand reached the man’s right wrist, the ghost pulled suddenly away.

Sherlock’s voice ripped from his throat: “Wait!” His eyes flew open, but of course were met with nothing but his empty flat. He reached out impulsively, desperately, but the subtle warmth of the body in front of him was gone, and his hands felt only air. He whirled around, arms outstretched, then stalked around every inch of his flat, finding nothing. “Oh, don’t be an idiot,” he growled, but if the ghost heard him, he made no reply. 

Confused and desperately curious, Sherlock threw himself to the floor to wait for the ghost, the shiny new mystery, to return. With any luck, the ghost would trip over him.

  
  


John had endured the ghost’s curiosity with military posture, but when the touch reached his right wrist, panic had made him pull away. It had occurred to John that he had no idea what this ghost was capable of, and if it discovered John’s cane, it could easily rip it from John’s grasp, leaving him helpless and lame.

So John had limped quickly from his haunted flat, making it only a few steps down the hallway before collapsing against a wall, breath sawing in and out of his lungs. There he sat, on the dirty carpet, as he regained his composure. A neighbour stepped over him without a second glance. 

He felt shaken, hunted, _like he’d seen a ghost,_ except he hadn’t seen anything, had he. No, he’d only felt it. He imagined recounting his experience to Ella, wondering what she would make of it, and choked on a bitter laugh. God, he’d be on meds so fast. He’d already turned down the medications to help him sleep, to fight depression, but this would be the last straw.

 _Nothing happens to me_ , indeed.

He sat there, staring for an immeasurable period, before he realized what he was staring at. His left hand, lying on his thigh, was not shaking at all. Slowly, he raised his hand in the air in front of him, watching it like it belonged to someone else, watching as it hovered completely steady.

Sucking in a deep breath, John closed his eyes and tipped his head back to lean against the wall. He clenched and unclenched his left hand, then thudded his head against the wall several times. Then, with a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, and trudged back to his flat.

Stopping just inside the doorway, he paused to peruse the empty flat, pursing his lips. “Hello?” he tried tentatively, feeling like an idiot. He took a few steps into the flat before stopping again. “I’m back. Sorry, I left, but this is all a lot to take in, you understand.” 

There was no reply, and as John slowly searched the flat, the ghost was nowhere to be found, though the air seemed charged with its huffy, affronted presence. Or maybe that was just John’s imagination. 

It was getting dark when John finally gave up, so he made himself a dinner of beans on toast, washed his dishes by hand, then booted up his laptop. He logged onto his blog and clicked to make a new post. The cursor blinked on the blank page for several minutes before John’s index fingers finally began pecking.

 _I think I’ve accidentally found myself a flatmate_ , he typed. He clicked ‘post’ and, with nothing better to do, went through his nighttime routine and climbed into bed.

  
  


Sherlock sat on the floor until his arse went numb before giving up. There was really only so long he could ponder over the very few facts he had, and he’d never been known for his patience, so he went out for a dinner of fish and chips (ignoring the fish) before returning to the flat. He didn’t own a couch, and he preferred to lie down while thinking, so he stripped off his coat and went to lie on the bed with his clothes still on. He was a foot from the bed when his shins hit something hard.

With a gasp, Sherlock reached out, grabbing the moment his palm made contact. The ghost startled under his touch, but allowed it as Sherlock felt the hand that was gripping something. A handle. Curious, Sherlock trailed his fingertips down until they met cool metal, and he sucked in a breath in realization.

“Oh, is that what that was about?” he wondered aloud, stroking the hospital issued cane briefly before returning to the ghost’s right hand. Gently, he tried to loosen the man’s tight grip, but was met with resistance. He sighed in exasperation. “I’m not going to steal your cane, I just want to feel your hand,” he muttered, wondering how he could win the ghost’s trust.

He bit the inside of his cheek briefly before lowering himself to his knees. He reached out carefully, finding a knee wrapped in thin fabric – flannel, pyjamas – and moved his hand until he found the man’s free left hand, clenched in the bedsheets. The ghost was sitting on the edge of the bed, cane gripped in his right hand, as if he had been about to get up. 

The flat was dark, but it did not matter – there was nothing to see anyway.

With a gentle touch, noting the irony that Sherlock was trying to avoid spooking a ghost, he took the ghost’s left hand and placed it on his head, shivering as his hair was gently tugged by invisible fingers. Bowing his head, he pressed his lips to the ghost’s hand on the cane and paused, breathing slowly, trying to still his nervous tremoring. 

Finally, the hand on the cane opened. Sherlock tensed, expecting to hear a clatter of metal on the ground, but there was no sound as the ghost offered his palm to Sherlock’s curious touch.

Sherlock had come to the conclusion that the ghost was left-hand dominant, so the calluses he found on his right thumb and index finger had him grinning with delight. Not only a doctor, but undeniably military as well. This gun-wielding right hand was unmistakable. And the man obviously had some level of ambidexterity.

“Oh, you are _fascinating_ ,” Sherlock breathed. He reached up quickly, impulsively, until he found a stiff shoulder, and then skimmed his hand along thin cotton and flesh until he brushed hair. Smirking in triumph, Sherlock raked his fingers through the short, regulation haircut. Touch alone could not reveal a tan-line, but Sherlock would bet that this ghost had been stationed somewhere hot. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he wondered aloud.

  
  


John had been recovering from a nightmare, about to get up to fetch a glass of water, when the ghost had once again made its presence known. Sitting in bed in his pyjamas, John had sat stiffly and ambivalent, gripping his cane tightly, until the specter had knelt in front of him and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. The gesture had been so submissive, so trusting, that John had immediately given in, dropping his cane to the floor with a clatter. Now, the ghost’s fingers were fluttering in John’s hair, gently as a butterfly’s wings, and he closed his eyes, submitting to the touch. He allowed his own hands to wander, replacing his left hand with his right, burying it in thick curls, and brought his dominant hand down to explore the ghost’s face. 

It felt oddly sensual, sitting in bed with the presence kneeling at his feet as they explored each other with touch alone. The ghost was obviously a man, and John tried to picture his face as he brushed his fingertips along thick eyebrows, a strong nose and full, yielding lips. He could feel moist breath against his skin and marveled that the ghost seemed to breathe. He stroked his thumb over a startlingly prominent cheekbone, along a smooth jaw, and, very carefully, over fluttering eyelids. What colour would his eyes be, John wondered.

Wherever John touched, the ghost did the same, exploring John’s facial features with gentle brushes and suggestions of pressure. John brought his hand to the man’s throat, expecting the ghost to do the same, but instead, the ghost brought his fingertips back to John’s lips, just as John’s tongue darted out to wet them. There was no taste as John’s tongue met the man’s flesh, but beneath his hand, John felt the vibrations of sound. 

They both froze for a moment, assessing the situation. John opened his eyes and stroked his fingers down the long, invisible neck before pressing his palm more securely against the offered flesh, an Adam’s apple nudging the heel of his hand. His hand hovered in the air, poised as if to choke, but remained lax. Closing his eyes again, John removed his right hand from the ghost’s hair and used it to grip an invisible wrist instead, then purposely sucked the finger – still brushing his lower lip – into his mouth. The throat beneath his hand quivered with strong vibrations, and John moaned softly in response, wishing his ears could detect what his skin felt. 

Decision made, John no longer hesitated as he brought both hands to the ghost’s collar, opening the straining buttons and reveling in the newly revealed skin. It amazed him, how warm the ghost was, as if he were alive, and it allowed John to pretend as he buried one hand in thick curls again and leant slowly forward. If he kept his eyes closed, it almost seemed real, this beautiful man kneeling in front of him, tilting his face up as John kissed him, missing his mark at first until the man shifted, bringing their lips together. 

The ghost surged forwards then, and John leaned back on the bed as the ghost rose and then straddled him, the mattress dipping on both sides of John’s hips. With a groan, John pulled their heads together again, deepening the kiss.

  
  


Sherlock pressed the ghost into the mattress, kissing him eagerly. He was still exulting over this shocking turn of events, hardly able to believe how lucky he was. This was, without a doubt, the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him.

He pulled back from the kiss slightly to observe, with wonder and disbelief, the way the bed compressed under an unseen weight. Deft, fluttery movements rumpled the front of his shirt, and Sherlock watched as his buttons seemed to undo themselves before he helped divest himself of the material. Being unable to see made the removal of clothing somewhat awkward, but Sherlock had always loved a challenge, and they managed it without too many ripped seams or bruised limbs. 

Still on his hands and knees above the ghost, Sherlock’s erection and testicles hung heavily between his legs, and he leaned down to press his lips to the ghost’s warm skin again. His partner tilted his head back, offering his neck, and Sherlock immediately took advantage, nipping and sucking a bruise into invisible flesh. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply, hoping to detect the man’s scent, but only the hints of detergent and linen were noticeable. It was odd, not being able to smell his partner, almost as if they were in their own little bubbles, separated from each other by an impossibly thin film.

He let his teeth graze sensitive skin, and beneath his lips, the throat vibrated in response, an unheard moan that stoked the flame of Sherlock’s need. One hand fisted itself in Sherlock’s curls again – the ghost seemed fond of them – while another explored the expanse of Sherlock’s back as the detective mouthed lower, along a collarbone until the texture under his lips changed. 

The hands tensed at the same time that Sherlock paused. Stroking soothingly along strong biceps, Sherlock slowly shook his head from side to side, his lips tingling as they skimmed puckered and dimpled flesh expanding from a divot on the man’s left shoulder. From what he could feel, the scar was quite impressive, and Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration, wishing he could _see_ this intriguing ghost, wishing they could speak so that Sherlock could tease out all his secrets.

The scar, along with the cane, solidified the impression of a soldier in Sherlock’s mind, but one that was a healer as well. Such a contradiction, the army doctor. Sherlock wished to turn the man around to feel for the entry wound, for surely such damage could only be caused by the bullet’s exit, perhaps by infection as well – the infection that had killed him? But the soldier was still tense, so the detective continued his examination elsewhere, leaving the scar be for now.

  
  


The ghost was dead set on exploring every inch of John’s body, inspiring John to think of him as a bit of a detective, endlessly curious. John watched his skin compress and rise as it was licked and stroked and sucked. By the time the ghost was satisfied, John was panting, his head tilted back and his prick aching. When at last his invisible partner began crawling back up the bed, John took advantage of his position to flip them on the narrow mattress, managing not to dump them on the floor. 

“That’s right,” John gasped, lowering his hips until their cocks aligned. “It’s my turn now.”

Beneath him, the ghost squirmed, spreading his legs and arching up to increase their skin contact. John buried his face in his neck, feeling the pulse pounding there, and moaned into hot skin. Terribly worked up, John braced himself with the elbow of his good arm against the mattress and reached down to grip a bony hip with his left hand. His partner was tall and lean, not skinny, John realized as he squeezed and massaged the bulk of muscle along the ghost’s thigh. Said thigh tensed as the long leg wrapped around John’s, pulling him in closer as they thrust against each other, humid heat and pleasure building between them. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” John gasped, nipping at an earlobe. 

  
  


“Oh, God,” Sherlock groaned, arching his back as the soldier thrust against him, their cocks sliding against each other, slick with excitement. They were both sweating, the ghost’s motions firm and demanding, and Sherlock was quickly losing his mind with lust. He had asked for it, he supposed, the way he’d teased and tested, working up his soldier into a frenzy. 

His nipple was stroked and pinched between rough thumb and forefinger and Sherlock gasped, digging his nails into the strong, writhing back. Sensing weakness, the soldier pressed onwards, squeezing and plucking until Sherlock was bucking under him, his hips thrusting into what appeared to be thin air, save for the way his cock was pressed into his belly, the way his thighs were compressed where they wrapped around the soldier’s strong, compact form. 

  
  


Nails scored down John’s back, leaving trails of fire in their wake, before a hand gripped his arse hard, urging them together faster. 

  
  


Sherlock groaned deeply, the sound rumbling in his chest, and he squeezed the firm buttock in his hand. With each thrust, his foreskin was rolled up and down his cockhead, the ghost’s testicles rubbing against his own.

  
  


Another hand found its way to John’s head as John sucked a sensitive nipple into his mouth, closing his eyes against the orgasm he was trying to postpone. He let his teeth graze the nipple as it slipped from his mouth, reveling in the way the strong body tensed under him.

  
  


“Please, yes,” Sherlock gasped to the ceiling, his eyes rolling back, his abused nipples sparking with pleasure. He pressed his fingers deeper between the soldier’s cheeks, nudging against the hot centre with his middle finger, feeling the muscle contract and dilate.

  
  


A dry finger pressed against John’s arsehole and that was it, the final push. The simmering pleasure rose suddenly to a boil, and John sank his teeth into a strong trapezius as his orgasm overtook him.

  
  


The sting of the bite coupled with the final bruising thrusts threw Sherlock, shouting, over the edge. He clung with unyielding strength to the body in his arms as the pleasure in his pelvis exploded into ecstasy, liquid heat spreading between their stomachs.

  
  


They shook together in the aftermath, muscles exhausted and trembling, the evidence of their shared pleasure slowing drying tacky. Awkwardly, they found each other’s lips, exchanging lax, lingering kisses, each nuzzling into invisible flesh. They fell asleep that way, tangled in each other.

When they woke, they were alone.

  
  


_Felt but unseen, two strings in neighbouring blankets were plucked, vibrating excitedly. When they brushed they snagged on one another, tugging and pulling. Around them, their respective universes shuddered and wrenched._

  
  


In the mirror the next morning, Sherlock took stock of his body. There was a brilliant bruise, tender to the touch, in the shape of a bite mark where his right shoulder met neck. The white column of his throat was adorned with two smaller, plum-coloured bursts, small capillaries broken under the skin. His abdominals were sticky with dried semen, the tendons in his groin pleasingly sore, his lips indecently swollen and his hair riotously messy. He was, in short, the very depiction of the morning after. 

Meeting his own eyes in the mirror, an irrepressible smile broke across Sherlock’s face.

  
  


In the shower the next morning, John took stock of his body. His chest and thighs were dappled with hickeys, his wounded shoulder was tight and protesting, his abdominals sore. Upon inspection in the mirror, he could see that his back was streaked with five distinct lines of red and his lips were slightly puffy. 

Looking at his reflection, John couldn’t suppress the boyish grin that split his lips.

  
  


Sherlock had just finished getting dressed when an impatient knock rapped on his door.

“Sherlock!” came Lestrade’s voice, and all thoughts of ghosts vanished.

Wrenching the door open, Sherlock was greeted with the DI’s tired face. “Where?” he demanded.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” The DI’s eyes widened. “Are those _hickeys_?”

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“There was a note this time. Seriously, though, what are those?”

“Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson,” Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock grimaced. “He won’t work with me.”

“Look, I’ll be your assistant if you tell me how you got those hickeys.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’d be a horrible assistant.”

Lestrade crossed his arms. “Will you come? How’d you get those hickeys?”

“If I come will you stop asking that idiotic question?”

“Fine!”

“I’ll be right behind.”

With a huff, Lestrade turned and stalked away.

  
  


John could not deny that he was disappointed when he did not run into his ghost that morning, literally or figuratively. He sat with a piece of toast and a cuppa as he perused the newspaper, reading an article about a recent string of serial suicides, as odd as that sounded. He cleaned his gun, tidied the flat, stared at his laptop screen a bit, but ultimately couldn’t think of anything to post that wouldn’t sound utterly mad. When he went to type, all he could think of was _I had sex with a ghost last night._

He shuffled somewhat aimlessly around the flat for a bit, unwilling to admit to himself the hope that the more he moved around, the higher the chance that he’d bump into his ghost. By lunchtime he was both disillusioned and frustrated with himself, and slammed out of the flat to grab a sandwich somewhere. 

  
  


Sherlock lay on his still rumpled bed, eyes closed, hands steepled. There were three patches on his arm. On his stomach sat his skull, staring at him with eyeless sockets. He’d tried calling for the ghost, referring to him as ‘Ghost’, ‘Captain’, and ‘Doctor’, but had rudely received no response. The skull, while equally dead, was not nearly as interesting, but it would have to do.

He opened his eyes and glanced to the side, eyeing the hideous pink suitcase on the chair in the middle of the room. 

“It’s no use, there’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it,” he muttered to the skull. Jerking into a sitting position, Sherlock moved the skull to the bedside table and pulled out his phone. He hated using it as there was always a chance the number would be recognized from his website, but he was too impatient to try to con a stranger into letting him use theirs. From memory, he input the number from the pink suitcase’s luggage label and composed the text that would either be ignored, or send the murderer into a panic. 

With bated breath, Sherlock waited for several minutes, staring at his phone. It started to vibrate. The caller’s number was withheld.

“Yes!” he jumped to his feet and lunged for his coat – 

Then promptly tripped to the ground as his shoulder clipped an invisible body.

With a huff, he scrambled to his feet. “Oh, so now you’re back!” he exclaimed, swiping out his hands until he grabbed the ghost by his coat. “You’ve only missed everything of importance.”

  
  


He should be used to it by now, John figured, but he was still surprised when he was abruptly assailed as he stepped into his flat. The ghost seemed especially energetic as he gripped John’s shoulders, practically shaking him with excitement.

“Would you stop!” John exclaimed, struggling in his grip and trying not to drop the shopping. “I don’t know what you want!”

The ghost began tugging him towards the door, but John resisted. He placed the shopping bag on the floor and grabbed a bony wrist with his newly freed hand, the other gripping his cane.

“Oi, stop being so pushy, I don’t know –” John cut off suddenly as realization struck him. If John couldn’t hear the ghost, maybe the ghost couldn’t hear John either?

Putting his weight on his good leg, John abandoned his cane in order to grab the ghost’s arm with both hands. He quickly unbuttoned the shirt cuff he felt and rucked up the sleeve, exposing his forearm. With deliberate pressure, John began tapping one finger against the ghost’s skin. The ghost seemed distracted, squirming in John’s grip and John sighed in frustration. He squeezed the forearm to get the ghost’s attention, and then paused as he felt something odd. Was that a…plaster? He felt along the arm with questing fingertips. Three plasters?

  
  


“I don’t know if you’ve heard about it – the serial suicides,” Sherlock began, gripping the ghost’s shoulders. "No time to explain, but I might have got a lead, and we need to follow it.” He kept one hand on the struggling soldier as he reached for his coat. “No, don’t pull away – it could take ages to find you again. I like company when I go out and the skull just attracts attention. Well, so will you admittedly, but at least you’re a full human rather than just a head. And you can walk on your –”

His excited rambling was cut off with a yelp as one of the nicotine patches was ripped from his arm and fluttered to the floor. The edge of a second was starting to peel off, and Sherlock, one arm through his coat, snagged the offending invisible hand. “What do you think you’re –”

Again he stopped midsentence, noticing at last that his shirt sleeve had been rolled up and that the ghost was gripping his wrist insistently, a rhythm being tapped into his skin. He focused hard on his own wrist, watching the skin indent with each tap and his eyes widened in awe.

“ _Genius_ ,” he breathed.

The tapping paused for a moment and then began again, quick, quick. Pause. Long, quick, long, quick. Pause. Quick, long. Pause.

Impatiently, Sherlock waited as each letter was tapped onto his wrist.

I CANT HEAR Y

Heart pounding, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the soldier’s wrist and drummed his own message.

NAME?

The ghost hesitated.

JOHN WATSON

“John Watson,” Sherlock murmured, his smile nearly blinding as he pressed his own name into John’s skin. “We’ve already met, but it is nice to know what to call you.”

FOLLOW ME, Sherlock ordered, releasing John briefly to shrug on his coat and then tugging on his arm insistently, not taking no for an answer.

  
  


Sherlock Holmes was an insufferably bossy ghost, John decided as he was tugged along the sidewalk. He’d been forced to abandon his shopping on the floor of his flat and had only just managed to lock the door behind him. His Morse code demands of ‘wait’ and ‘where are we going’ were returned with impatient replies of ‘no time’ and ‘case’, which were really of no help whatsoever. 

He was getting some odd looks as he stumbled along the pavement, and John tried to tug his arm closer to his body, hoping to eliminate the impression that he was getting pulled along by an invisible leash. ‘Stop’ he tapped desperately, and was ignored. He could just pull away – he knew how to break the most determined of grips – but found himself submitting to Sherlock’s whim, going along with it. He had no idea where they were going, but it was the most alive he’d felt in a long time, dodging pedestrians and dashing around corners at Sherlock’s insistence. The ghost’s enthusiasm was contagious, and John found his heart rate up, anticipation quickening his steps.

He was tempted to grab Sherlock’s hand, wanting a sense of connection, and only resisted when he thought of how odd it would look. For chrissakes he’d slept with this man! As soon as he had access to his laptop, John was going to google the ghost’s name and see what he could find – how he’d died, what he’d looked like. The need to see his face was like a living thing, squirming in his chest. 

Sherlock yanked him sharply around another corner and John followed, eyeing the antique book store they were heading towards. His brow furrowed in confusion. What was the importance of this place? 

John was reaching for the door when Sherlock’s grip disappeared, so suddenly that John gasped and, instead of opening the door, stumbled up against it instead.

“You alright, mate?” a man asked, and John looked up, noticing several passersby watching him with curiosity and concern.

Nodding, John stood straight and moved away from blocking the door. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,” he muttered, too distracted to be embarrassed. He looked around instinctually, but of course Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He felt suddenly, unnervingly, alone.

He took another step along the pavement, unsure, his hands hanging empty at his sides. Then he realized. 

Both his hands were empty. His cane! He’d left it at his flat, in such a hurry to follow Sherlock that he’d forgotten it!

For a moment, John simply stood, staring at his feet as a twitching of his lips grew into a full grin. He did a little jump and then shifted his weight from foot to foot experimentally, a laugh bursting out of him as both legs stood firm. Amazing!

He looked around himself, wanting to share this moment with Sherlock, but of course all he found were the curious and dubious expressions of strangers as they passed him, giving him a wide berth. He stepped briefly into the book store, apparently empty of anyone save a suspicious employee, so John quickly exited.

With a chuckle, John continued down the sidewalk again, a skip in his step. He really had no idea where he was – he’d been too focused on avoiding obstacles to pay much attention on the way here – but he could not care less. It had been too long since John had been able to go for a walk without having to ignore the pitying looks of strangers, and John was going to enjoy this.

  
  


Sherlock had just entered Angelo’s when John’s wrist was torn from his grasp. It was shocking enough that he whirled in the doorway, looking back out onto the empty pavement. Disgruntled and at a loss, Sherlock accepted his usual table alone by the front window, gazing out at the evening street. If John didn’t want to be here, Sherlock had no way of holding him, really, though the ghost had followed him easily enough on the way. He really had no idea how any of this worked, whether the ghost was barred from certain places, or whether he could only be in contact with Sherlock for a limited time. 

Taking out his phone, Sherlock did a quick search for the name John Watson, trying keywords like doctor, soldier, injured and so on. His attempt revealed nothing, as if John Watson simply did not exist. He’d need his laptop to do a more in-depth search.

His quick research was interrupted by Angelo, who served him a dish of simple spaghetti with tomato sauce. The owner knew Sherlock’s appetite was non-existent while on a case, but that never stopped him from hoping that the detective would eat a bite or two. Putting away his phone, Sherlock directed his attention out the window. 

He sat, watching, for nearly ten minutes before a cab came to a stop outside Northumberland Street.

“Who do we trust even though we don’t know them?” Sherlock murmured to himself, eyes on the parked cab. A woman stooped to speak to the cabbie. “Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?” She turned away in frustration. “Angelo, glass of white wine, quickly!” Sherlock called, pushing back from the table. When Angelo appeared, Sherlock grabbed the glass, muttering a quick thank you, then splashed the wine in his own face. “Angelo, headless nun.”

Angelo, who had been watching with consternation, smiled in understanding. “Oh, now that was a case! Same again?”

Pulling on his coat, Sherlock nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Settling his face into a mask of annoyance and disdain, the owner grabbed Sherlock by the coat collar and yanked him to his feet. “Get out of my restaurant! Cretino!” He pulled Sherlock, stumbling and reeking of alcohol, out the front door and tossed him onto the pavement outside. “You’re drunk. Stay away!”

Sherlock made his faltering way across the street, raising his hands to shield his eyes from the headlights of honking cars, and collapsed against the cabbie’s window. When the middle-aged, rat-faced driver shook his head, Sherlock made a nuisance of himself, whinging as he peered into the cab.

“I’m not on duty, mate, you see the light?”

There was a photograph pinned to the dash, torn, depicting a young boy and girl, siblings, obviously. The cabbie’s identification tag read Jeff Hope – these were clearly his children. Unimportant.

Needing to be sure of the driver’s guilt, Sherlock pulled away and leant against the cab’s trunk, pulling out his phone. He dialed the pink lady’s number. From inside the cab, Hope’s mobile began to ring. 

“Hello?” 

“How do you make them take the poison?” Sherlock hissed into the phone.

“What, what did you say?” Hope exclaimed, and, losing patience, Sherlock lunged through the window and seized the driver by the shirt. 

“I said, how do you make them take the poison?” he snarled.

Eyes wide, Hope tried to pull back, without success. “Oi, who are you?” he demanded.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Something in Hope’s expression shifted. “Do a lot of drugs, Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock faltered. “Not in a while.”

“I ask ‘cause you’re very resilient.” A wave of dizziness rushed over Sherlock, and he blinked heavily. “Most people would have passed out by now.”

Jerking back, Sherlock whirled around, finding the needle imbedded in his arm through the coat. Hope stepped out of the taxi to catch him as he stumbled, pulling open the back door. 

“John!” Sherlock tried to yell, the drug making his tongue feel thick and heavy. “John!”

“He’s just had too much to drink,” Hope assured the curious onlookers. “Look at ‘im,” he laughed as Sherlock landed in a heap in the back of the cab. The door shut behind him and as the cab began to move, the world spun and went black.

  
  


John walked for about half an hour before entering a pub and buying a few drinks to celebrate. His rumbling stomach, hoping for something more substantial than beer, eventually reminded him of the shopping that he’d left on the floor in his flat, and he stood with a groan, hoping the milk hadn’t spoiled already. As he left the premises, the alcohol hit him rather harder than he was expecting. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and he was feeling the effects of that now, as the pavement wavered slightly under his feet. He still didn’t know where, precisely, he was, and mildly intoxicated, there was no way he’d be able to find his way home. 

As if conjured by his thoughts, a cab pulled up beside him and the driver leaned over to call through the open window: “Need a lift, mate?”

Patting his pockets, empty save for Harry’s mobile and his depleted bank card, John shook his head. “I’m alright, thanks.”

“You sure?” the cabbie insisted. “You look a little lost.”

“Can’t afford the fare,” John admitted, approaching so he could lower his voice.

“Don’t worry about it,” the cabbie smiled, his large front teeth peeking through his thin lips. “I’m off duty, anyhow.”

Brow furrowed, John noticed that the taxi light on top of the car was off. He peered at the man. “Why would you do that?”

The cabbie raised his eyebrows. “You just look like you need a cab.” As he spoke, he reached into his pocket to reveal a handgun, and John stiffened. 

If John ran, he could likely get away before the cabbie could get in a clear shot, but that would put the surrounding civilians at unjustifiable risk. Once John was in that taxi, there would be no easy escape.

“You know, I really could use a cab,” John agreed levelly, and with a hand that was perfectly steady, opened the back door, stepped in, and let the cage close around him. He didn’t bother telling the cabbie his address – whatever their destination, it certainly was not home.

“Give me your mobile,” the cabbie demanded, holding out his hand.

“I haven’t got one.”

The cabbie twisted in his seat and aimed the gun at John, holding it low and out of sight from passersby. “I’m not an idiot. Give it to me.”

The gun was real, most likely a GLOCK from what John could see, and he thought longingly of his SIG, sitting in his desk at home. Slowly, John pulled the mobile from his pocket and handed it over, his fingers reluctant to let go of his best chance of escape.

“Put your seatbelt on,” the cabbie reminded him, and then shifted into first. “You try to notify someone outside, I will notice, and I will shoot them and then you.”

They drove in silence for several minutes, the lights of the city flickering across their faces.

“Cute kids,” John commented, nodding at the photograph on the dash as they drove.

The cabbie met his eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Love ‘em with all of my being,” he agreed. “What’s your name?”

“John Watson.”

“You like kids, Mr. Watson?”

“Doctor,” John corrected shortly, looking out his window.

“Ah, of course,” the cabbie breathed. “You seem like a good bloke, Dr. Watson. Rest assured that everything that happens tonight is for my kids.”

John looked at him sharply. “How is abducting me going to help them?”

The cabbie simply smiled and looked back at the road. After a moment he turned the radio on.

They’d driven for about ten minutes when John felt something nudge his foot. Looking down, John saw nothing, and hope burst in his chest. Reaching down as if to scratch his ankle, John felt around and nearly laughed when he found a familiar bony wrist.

He smiled guilelessly at the cabbie, who was eyeing him suspiciously in the mirror, and kept hold of Sherlock’s wrist as he sat back in his seat. Sherlock’s arm was limp and unresponsive in John’s grasp, even when John shook him, and John looked out the window to hide his frown. 

How could a ghost lose consciousness? 

  
  


Someone was pinching Sherlock’s arm. Hard. With a gasp, he jerked into awareness, and the pinching hand wrapped around his wrist, beginning to tap immediately. 

AWAKE?

 _John_. He was still on the floor of the cab. Outside the window, all he could see were tall trees. 

HOW U FIND ME? Sherlock tapped out clumsily, trying to clear his swimming vision.

DIDNT U SHOWED UP

Inertia pushed Sherlock against Hope’s seat as the cab rolled to a stop.

U OKAY? John tapped on his wrist.

DRUGGED WHERE R W-

“Up you get, I know you’re awake,” Hope said conversationally, shutting off the engine and getting out.

Struggling to sit up with muscles that felt sapped of energy, Sherlock looked around. “Where are we?” he slurred, trying to concentrate on the rhythmic pressure on his wrist.

The passenger door opened. “As soon as you said your name, I knew who you were.” Hope looked down at him casually. “Sherlock Holmes. You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are.”

“I was unconscious for the trip here,” Sherlock contradicted, but John had just spelt out the closest street name and Sherlock’s mental map zoomed and focused on their location. “Roland-Kerr Further Education College,” he said aloud while simultaneously communicating it to John.

“One thing about being a cabbie, you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder,” Hope explained, and then he pulled out a gun.

“Oh, dull,” Sherlock sighed and leant back against John’s knees. The gun was a fake, no less. He told John as much with a finger against his ankle.

Nails dug into Sherlock’s arms briefly, causing the detective to flinch. REAL, John insisted with firm pressure.

“Don’t worry, it gets better,” Hope assured him, but Sherlock was hardly paying attention. He peered closely at the gun, but it was certainly false. He could see where the plastic parts were glued together. “You want to know how I get people to swallow those pills? Follow me.” He lowered the gun and walked away.

John, a military man, would certainly recognize a real gun. But Sherlock was equally certain that this gun was fake. If Hope’s gun were real, he wouldn’t have bothered with drugging Sherlock. He’d drugged him because he hadn’t been confident in his firearm’s ability to keep Sherlock cooperative. Which meant that Sherlock and John were not seeing the same thing.

Suddenly, John gave him a tug and let go. Wide eyed, Sherlock quickly grabbed him, and was forced to follow him out of the cab in order to stay in contact. Still unsteady on his feet, Sherlock leaned some of his weight on his invisible friend, and together they followed the cabbie into the building.

  
  


It was difficult to look graceful while half carrying a surprisingly heavy ghost with a gun aimed at his back, so John was unsurprised when the cabbie demanded: “What are you playing at?”

“I’m drunk,” John offered, trying to keep his knees from buckling as Sherlock staggered. 

“You’re not right in the head, are you, soldier man?” the cabbie muttered, ushering him through the building’s door.

“How could you tell I’m military?” John demanded, trying not to bump Sherlock into the door frame. 

“Clear as day to me.”

  
  


“Come on, then,” Hope urged, holding the door open for Sherlock. “Need a hand?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock countered, struggling to fit through the doorway with John at his side.

“Surprised you haven’t fallen over on your own,” Hope admitted, leading the way up the stairs.

Taking a breath, Sherlock gripped the handrail with one hand and John’s arm with the other, struggling as each step seemed to waver under his foot. 

  
  


Fortunately their destination was only on the second floor, because John didn’t think Sherlock could handle another flight of stairs. 

MOBILE? He tapped against Sherlock’s side as they reached the top.

Sherlock replied with a single letter: Y

“Through that door,” the cabbie ordered, and John complied.

POLICE, John tapped.

  
  


Hope opened the door to a classroom and held it for Sherlock. Tired but more clearheaded, Sherlock straightened, relieving John of some of his weight as he entered the dark room. 

NOT YET, he replied as Hope flipped a switch and lights flickered to life.

“Well, what do you think?” Hope asked. “It’s up to you. You’re the one that’s going to die here.”

NOW, John insisted, still pressed close to his side as they moved towards the chairs.

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock countered, sitting heavily and lowering his forehead to the cool tabletop. 

“That’s what they all say.” Hope pulled out the chair across from him and sat.

DO U WANT ME TO DIE, John asked him, where their hands touched under the table. Sherlock tensed.

U R ALREADY DEAD

NO U R

Sherlock didn’t have time to parse that.

“Bit risky, wasn’t it?” he began, lifting his head to gaze blearily at Hope. “You abducted me under the eye of several witnesses, and Angelo will recognize your face. Probably even your cab number.”

“You call that a risk? Nah. This,” he reached into his pocket, “is a risk.” On the table he placed two clear containers, each holding one pill. Across the table their eyes met. “Oh, you’re gonna love this.”

  
  


“Are you a betting man, Dr. Watson? Or do you prefer Captain?” the cabbie asked, taking a seat across from John.

“Just Dr. Watson, now, and no. Not in a while.”

“Well, I think you’re going to like this game.” He kept one hand rested on the gun he’d placed on the table, and with the other he reached into his pocket.

“These aren’t my kind of stakes,” John argued levelly.

“Oh, I disagree.” He pulled out two glass vials and placed them side by side on the table. Each vial contained one pill. They were identical in every way. “An army man like you? I think these are exactly your stakes. A game of life and death. You win, you live. You lose, you die. Doesn’t get more exciting than that!”

John glared at him stonily. 

“Let’s play,” Hope decided. He pushed the vial on his right forward, towards John. “Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill?”

  
  


Hope pushed one container, the left, forward, towards Sherlock. “Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill?”

“It’s a game of chance,” Sherlock insisted. “Why should I choose? What’s in it for me?”

“It’s not chance, it’s chess,” Hope hissed, leaning forwards. “I know how people think, how people think I think. Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple –”

“It’s still just luck.”

“I’ve played four times and I’m alive.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“’Cause here’s the best part: whichever pill you don’t pick, I take. And together, we take our medicine.”

The corner of Sherlock’s parted lips tugged up.

  
  


John’s eyes flicked between the two pill bottles, then up to the cabbie. “Is this a joke?”

The cabbie laughed once and raised the gun. “Here are the rules: you take one pill, I take the other.”

Stiff backed, the tingle of perspiration down his spine, John eyed the gun. He did not need to ask _Or what?_ He squeezed Sherlock’s wrist tightly and asked dubiously, stalling: “And this will help your children?” 

The cabbie nodded. “I’m sponsored, you see. I haven’t got a lot of time left and I haven’t got much money to give my kids when I die.” He smiled bitterly. “This solves that problem.”

“My death?”

The cabbie sighed, as if John had disappointed him. “Aren’t doctors meant to be smart? Don’t you read the papers? Nobody ever _thinks_.”

John carefully did not look at the gun as he tried to focus. Anything to buy time. His death would look like a suicide – no one would investigate it too intensely. A recently invalided army doctor, with PTSD and no prospects for the future? His suicide would be seen as inevitable. The only odd thing would be the location. Why not in his home? Why not by his own gun? 

Suddenly it clicked.

“The serial suicides,” John realized, eyes widening. “They weren’t suicides at all!”

Gray eyebrows raised above the spectacled eyes, insultingly impressed. “So you _can_ think after all.”

“It was you – you killed all of them!”

The cabbie sneered. “I didn’t kill ‘em, Dr. Watson. I talked to ‘em, and they killed themselves. Just like you’re about to.” He released the safety on the gun and the soft click sent John’s heart into overdrive. “Time to choose.”

  
  


John’s grip around Sherlock’s wrist tightened suddenly, the bones of his wrist grinding uncomfortably. 

“You didn’t expect that, did you, Mr. Holmes? I promise I won’t cheat – I’ll take whichever pill you don’t.”

Tugging his wrist out of John’s grasp, Sherlock clasped his hands and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?”

Hope nodded to the bottles. “Time to play.”

“Oh I am playing. This is my turn.” There was shaving cream behind Hope’s ear, unnoticed – so no spouse. The photograph of the children with the mother cut out – he was divorced, she took the kids. His clothes: three years old, but clean – he wasn’t thinking about the future. Why? “Ah, three years ago, that’s when they told you. That you’re a dead man walking.”

“So are you,” Hope retorted, eyes damp.

“You don’t have long though, do you?” Sherlock tilted his head, ignoring the way John gripped his knee desperately. “Am I right?”

Hope smiled bitterly. “Aneurism, right in here.” He pointed to his right temple. “And I’ve just outlived four people – that’s most fun you can have with an aneurism.”

“Mm, no. No, bitterness is a paralytic.” The tapping on his thigh was distracting. Sherlock resisted the urge to swat the hand away. “Love is a much more vicious motivator – somehow this is about your children.”

“Oh,” Hope looked down briefly, licked his lips. “You are good aren’t you? If only people could think like we do, it’s like we’re in our own little world.”

Sherlock froze. Something…something about what he’d just said. Closing his eyes, Sherlock repeated the scene to himself. _It’s like we’re in our own little world_ , he’d said. With a gasp Sherlock leaned back and grabbed John’s hand.

  
  


“What’s the point in choosing?” John countered, fighting to keep his breathing steady. “For all I know they’re both poison and you have the antidote. There’s a movie with this exact scenario, did you know?”

Hope smirked and shifted his arm, aiming the gun more closely at John’s forehead. “You can either take the chance, or I can shoot you in the head.”

The thigh under his hand suddenly tensed as Sherlock leaned back, then a large hand engulfed his own.

  
  


“What if I don’t choose either?”

Hope sighed and pulled out the fake gun, aiming it at Sherlock’s face. “You can either take the fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option.”

The gun was fake. But the one John saw was real.

 _Our own little worlds._ Or two separate worlds, different, but similar. And if John was in a similar situation… _I’m not dead, you are,_ John had said, as if he thought Sherlock was the ghost. 

“I know a real gun when I see one.”

Hope squeezed the trigger and watched the little flame that ignited from the barrel. “None of the others did.”

“Clearly.” All he wanted now was to leave, to get John out of here. “Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.” He stood, tugging on John’s hand, but the ghost – not ghost, he wasn’t a ghost, John was _alive_ – didn’t move. Sherlock’s eyes flicked down at his hand, where he tried pulling John again, but the soldier’s hand tore away from his. Sherlock froze.

“Just before you go, did you figure it out?” Hope asked.

Sherlock hesitated. Why wasn’t John coming?

“Which one’s the good bottle?”

Swallowing with a suddenly dry throat, Sherlock took a breath. “Of course,” he said roughly. “Child’s play.”

“Well, which one, then? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you.”

The taunt was obvious, but effective. And John was still there.

“Come on,” Hope urged, smiling. “Play the game.”

Sherlock sat back down.

  
  


“Come on,” the cabbie urged, finger on the trigger. “Just play the game.”

Sherlock pulled on his hand suddenly, but John resisted. If he moved now, the cabbie would shoot him. There was a look in the man’s eyes, a vicious, uncaring flatness that showed that he thought John’s life was less than useless. He didn’t care whether John lived or died, and that was worse than any revenge-seeking gunman, because the cabbie would not hesitate. 

“Alright,” John murmured, calmly. “Alright I’ll choose.” 

Sherlock tugged again and John pulled out of his grip completely, needing to focus. 

With a steady hand, John reached out slowly and closed his hand around the bottle closest to the cabbie.

  
  


With an arrogance that Sherlock did not entirely feel, he snatched the bottle closest to Hope.

“Oh! Interesting!”

The detective fiddled with the bottle, watching the pill rattle inside. With his other hand, he again reached for John, surprised when he touched the soldier’s thigh – John was standing.

“So what do you think?” Hope opened his bottle and retrieved his pill, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. “Shall we?” Hope stood and walked around the tabletop. “Are you clever enough to bet your life?”

Sherlock took out his own pill and lifted it to the light to observe it, but could see nothing identifying. The only way to prove he was right would be to swallow the damn thing.

“A man like you, I bet you get bored, don’t you? So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it?” Hope’s smile looked like a grimace. 

Everything he was saying was true. 

Sherlock was bored, nearly all the time. John was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in ages. And after this, after he defeated this pathetic, dying cabbie, Sherlock would solve the mystery of John Watson.

He brought the pill to his lips. His hand was shaking.

“Still the addict. But this is what you’re really addicted to,” Hope continued, raising his own pill. “You’ll do anything to stop being bored. You’re not bored now, are ya?”

Eyes locked, the two men placed the pills in their mouths and swallowed.

  
  


John hurled the bottle at the cabbie’s face, simultaneously knocking the man’s gun arm to the side as a shot rang out. Ears ringing, John launched himself over the table at the man, knocking his hat off his head. The cabbie’s chair tipped back and they hit the ground with a thud, the older man’s head smacking on the hard linoleum. John’s momentum sent him sprawling over the cabbie and into the chairs at the next table, a metal chair leg gouging into his forehead. 

Getting quickly to his feet, John turned to face the enemy, but the dazed cabbie still had hold of the gun, and he quickly swung his arm around to take aim.

A second shot rang out.

This one found its mark.

  
  


Sherlock and Hope lowered their hands, staring at each other. Without blinking, Hope tucked the empty bottle into his pocket and pulled out another one, this one filled with clear liquid. He opened the bottle and quickly swallowed the contents, gazing at Sherlock the whole while.

Sherlock’s blood went cold.

“Everyone’s so stupid,” Hope declared, tucking the second bottle away. “Even you.”

At Sherlock’s side, there was a sudden, violent movement, and he stumbled as John pushed him slightly. 

He’d never solve John’s mystery.

“Your fan will be so disappointed,” Hope sighed. He retrieved his fake gun from the tabletop and left the room, turning the lights out behind him.

Sherlock stood and watched him, numb. 

He’d been wrong. He was wrong.

He was going to die.

  
  


John was on his knees without remembering the fall. 

The cabbie got to his feet unsteadily, clutching his head. He should get to a hospital, John thought. They both should.

Glancing down, John saw the tiny hole in his jumper that was steadily leaking blood. Damn, well that was bad, wasn’t it.

Stepping around him, the cabbie made it halfway to the door before he collapsed, falling to the floor at the same time that John did. Ever the doctor, with one hand pressed to the wound in his abdomen, John crawled slowly to the cabbie’s side. When he pressed a bloody hand to the man’s neck, he felt no pulse. The knock to the head wasn’t enough to kill, unless the man had had an aneurysm. Maybe he’d had a heart attack.

The pain was really nearly unbearable now, and John blinked dark spots from his vision. “Come on, Watson,” he grunted, and began searching the man’s pockets. “Keep it together.” His mobile wasn’t there and the cabbie didn’t seem to have one. He must have left them in the cab. 

Agony spiked and John hunched over with a scream caught in his throat. 

He’d bloody well survived being shot in Afghanistan only to get shot in London, too. If that wasn’t a sign from the heavens he didn’t know what was.

  
  


It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s abdomen was aflame with agony, dropping him to his knees with the shock of it. 

The pain snapped him out of his daze, and he began crawling towards the door. The cleaners were in, Hope had said. With any luck, Sherlock could call for help. Fumbling, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialled 999.

“What’s your emergency?”

“I’ve been poisoned by an unknown toxin by a cab driver named Jeff Hope,” Sherlock bit out. “I’m at Roland-Kerr Further Education College.” Another spike had him crunching into a ball with a groan. “I’ve got about six minutes, maybe.” He hung up and continued his way towards the door.

His path was blocked by a body sprawled on the floor. An invisible body. For a moment, the burning agony in Sherlock’s body went cold, like his very being had been flash frozen.

“John!” With frantic hands, Sherlock felt out the form of the soldier, finding a hand that squeezed back weakly. “What happened? John!” He found John’s face, turned towards the floor, and tapped quickly against his cheek, the shaking in his hands likely making his Morse code unrecognizable. 

A hand made its way up Sherlock’s arm to his own cheek, where a clammy finger tapped gently, stealing Sherlock’s breath.

SHOT

Shaking his head, Sherlock began searching his body. “Where?” His hands quickly found the dampness rapidly soaking John’s jumper, and the soldier rolled further onto his side, away from Sherlock’s prodding fingers. Nausea and dizziness were joining the sensation of his intestines ripping apart, and Sherlock’s eyes sting, his vision blurring with tears.

“ _Help!_ ” he shouted into the dark room, but breathlessness stole the depth and volume from his voice. “Please, help!”

  
  


Sherlock’s presence beside him felt like a gift, an apology from the universe for what was happening to him. _Sorry you’re dying John, but here, this time you won’t be alone…_

Twitching fingers found John’s face again, followed by the press of quivering lips against his forehead. John was in too much agony to smile, but he turned his face towards Sherlock’s, offering his lips for a kiss. Sherlock’s cheeks were damp, and John realized the ghost was weeping.

“I’m not so scared, this time,” John admitted, through clenched teeth. “Hurts like all fucking hell though.”

  
  


Sherlock, on his knees at John’s side, curled his back as his vision darkened, pressing his wet face into John’s side. 

“I’m sorry I was wrong,” he whispered into the warm jumper, his lungs fighting for breath. “I didn’t figure it out in time, I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry.”

The shaking hand carding through his hair felt like forgiveness, and Sherlock let the darkness drown him.

  
  


Sprawled side-by-side, John was choking on his own blood and Sherlock was choking on his own vomit, their agony shared and lessoned through their clenched hands.

  
  


_Individually, their strings strained and screamed as the light was leached out of them. With one last quiver, the dimming strings touched, fusing together. Snagged, caught, their two universes writhed and tangled together. For a moment, all the threads went deadly silent. Then, from the core of the tangled webs, the light of a new universe exploded._

  
  


Sherlock woke to the sound of shattering glass. In front of him, Hope’s chest erupted with red and the cabbie collapsed to the floor. The pill fell out of Sherlock’s hand.

  
  


John woke to the sound of shattering glass. His gun was in his hand and his aim was true. He fled before Sherlock could turn around.

  
  


“…that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service…”

There was a shock blanket around his shoulders. He looked around himself, at the cop cars and lights and press. At the police tape. At the man standing outside the police tape.

“…nerves of steel…”

Sherlock trailed off, the breath suddenly gone from his body. 

_John_. Sherlock could see him! It was him, definitely, it had to be. Sherlock would recognize that nose anywhere.

“Actually, you know what, ignore me.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade exclaimed.

“Ignore everything I just said. It’s just the, er, shock talking.”

It felt like an eternity before Sherlock reached John’s side, his muscles aching with the restraint of not running. John smiled up at him. “It’s you isn’t it? I’d recognize those cheekbones anywhere.”

Not waiting for permission, Sherlock brought his hands up to John’s face and closed his eyes, feeling the familiar contours under his fingertips.

JOHN he tapped against his cheek, and the soldier smiled under Sherlock’s hands.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pressed a kiss to the palm, his finger pressing Sherlock’s name into the back of the detective’s hand. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, his lips trembling. He raked his eyes over John’s form, drinking in all the little details he’d missed with his fingertips. “You’re not dead.”

John smiled, his eyes crinkling. He, too, was looking up and down Sherlock’s body, though his eyes kept getting pulled back to Sherlock’s, as if mesmerized by the colour. His pupils dilated and Sherlock felt a low stirring of excitement in his belly. “Neither are you.”

  
  


Finding their way home to Baker Street took a bit of sleuthing (“I always put my address on my website, John, that’s hardly sleuthing.”), and when they arrived at the front door, Mrs. Hudson stared at them in disbelief. “You don’t need my permission to come in – or did you forget that you live here? Did you forget your keys?” She exclaimed, holding the door open for them.

The two men laughed, leaning against each other, as Mrs. Hudson retreated to her own flat, muttering fondly about _her boys_ and _lunacy_.

“I’m so glad we moved in here,” John said as they entered the sitting room. “I saw it in an advert and it looked lovely.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, hanging his coat by the door. “Yes, I thought so, as well. Did you end up going inside after bumping into me so rudely?” He smirked.

John turned to face him, eyebrows raised. Their gazes caught and held. “No, I was too unnerved. I thought I’d finally lost it.”

“After the lab, I thought I’d been drugged,” Sherlock admitted, stepping closer until he loomed over the shorter man. 

John tipped his head back, unintimidated. “Suppose we’re just meant to be together,” he offered. He licked his lips, drawing Sherlock’s eye, before looking away and smiling. When he stepped around Sherlock towards the kitchen, Sherlock nearly shivered with the urge to physically pull him back. “Tea? Assuming I can find everything.”

Clearing his throat, Sherlock turned to watch him as he filled the kettle. “First cupboard on your right.”

Opening said cupboard revealed several mugs, two of which John retrieved before throwing Sherlock a questioning look.

“It’s where I would put them,” Sherlock explained.

As they waited for the water to boil, Sherlock eyed his lab setup in the kitchen with interest, while John’s attention was caught by an open newspaper on the table. “You know,” he began quietly, “I just realized, I have no idea who the prime minister is.”

Sherlock looked up, considering John’s mood. The man wasn’t distraught, Sherlock decided, merely bemused. 

“So what, I’ve never known who the prime minister is.”

Head tilted over the paper still, John looked up at him through his lashes. “Politics not your thing?”

“My brain only holds information I deem important.”

This caught John’s attention. Eyebrows raised, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Really? And what is it that you deem important?”

“Anything relating to crime, mostly. Everything else gets deleted.”

“You’re not a computer,” John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. _No, I’m better,_ he didn’t say, but perhaps his expression seemed smug, because John snorted. “I know all about you, for example,” Sherlock stated, slowly walking around the table that separated them. 

“I’m not related to crime,” John said, making it sound like a question.

 _No, you’re better,_ he didn’t say. “But you are a mystery,” Sherlock rumbled, voice unwittingly seductive. “And I’ve always loved a good mystery.”

John swallowed heavily as he watched Sherlock’s approach. The kettle began whistling, and the shorter man gratefully turned his back on the detective to finish preparing their tea. “What can you tell?”

“May I see your phone?”

Surprised, John turned and handed it to him, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock inspected it for about two seconds before handing it back. “I know you’re an Army doctor,” Sherlock began, “and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried…” By the time Sherlock was finished, the tea was steeped and abandoned on the counter, John staring, eyes wide. “And your limp was psychosomatic, obviously.”

“That was amazing,” John choked out, still a little shell-shocked. 

“Really? You think so?” Sherlock asked, pleased. He stepped forward, eliminating the small space between them. “I wasn’t at all sure how you would take it.”

“How do people usually take it?” John murmured, placing his hands on Sherlock slim hips.

“‘Piss off’ is a common response,” Sherlock admitted, lowering his head. 

“God, you’re even more attractive than I imagined you would be.” John surged forwards, raising on his toes a bit as he took control of the kiss. Sherlock moaned gratefully, the sound passed to John’s mouth where it vibrated and shivered down his spine.

They left the tea, forgotten, on the countertop as they stumbled towards the main bedroom – clearly Sherlock’s, going by the décor – and onto the large bed.

Their second round of lovemaking was conducted with the lights on, every expression, wriggle and twitch visible as they took each other apart. Every scent and taste and sound coveted as they explored each other with every sense. The rightness of it seemed to infuse the world around them. When Sherlock gasped John’s name, 221B’s old bones seemed to groan with contentment, sinking into its foundation. When John’s eyelids fluttered, the very air seemed to sigh with pleasure along with him.

The universe, it seemed, was at peace, balanced at last. Because in this world, together as they were meant to be, were both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated!
> 
> Come say hi to me on tumblr! notesoflore.tumblr.com


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